I am a little wary of seeing your face, and
I am a little scared of who you were to me.
Friday, August 26, 2016
Friday, August 19, 2016
The autopsy of Amanda Grey
Lungs
She spent all of these seconds listening. "She was so quiet" they said, and " she had nothing much to say," but what they meant is that no one really asked. If they had,
They would have known, that it isn't every day you meet someone from the farrest of places. It isn't often, you meet someone who has so very much to say.
She had been to the moon twice, and maybe she was lying because she had at least three moonstones, so she had probably been three times.
She held her breath to prove that since she had been to space she had figured out that on the 17th of each month she didn't need air.
She would run, and she would run, and it was only a matter of time before she went to the moon and decided not to come back.
Aren't you happy here, though? They asked her and she would say "Neither here nor there" but the greatest mystery is,
What if,
That was far from the question that should have been asked,
And maybe a better question would be "Is there a where that you will be?"
The autopsy of Amanda Grey
Bones
She lived in a home she built from the sky down and,
Her body wondered out loud, "plug me in please," and she shushed it. SHHH. Body.
We are not made of things that can be recharged, and other things were meant to light up with electricity, but you and I, we run out when we do.
And she would nail down boards of her house, chimney and rooftop, and it would be difficult some days, building her house this way. Her knees would get scuffed up.
"Some things take sacrifice," she said to her knees. Matter-of-factly. And she painted the roof. She hammered and splinters stuck in her skin, but, she knew that the house would keep her safe. Someday.
And her lungs quivered, and knew they could not speak to this woman, paint on her cheeks and in her hair, splinters in her flesh, and bruises on her knees.
She hammered and hammered and sawed and built but she still had nowhere to sleep. "It will get done" and the bravest, the bravest of her body, finally spoke and her bones said, "Oh love, this will not do."
Bones
She lived in a home she built from the sky down and,
Her body wondered out loud, "plug me in please," and she shushed it. SHHH. Body.
We are not made of things that can be recharged, and other things were meant to light up with electricity, but you and I, we run out when we do.
And she would nail down boards of her house, chimney and rooftop, and it would be difficult some days, building her house this way. Her knees would get scuffed up.
"Some things take sacrifice," she said to her knees. Matter-of-factly. And she painted the roof. She hammered and splinters stuck in her skin, but, she knew that the house would keep her safe. Someday.
And her lungs quivered, and knew they could not speak to this woman, paint on her cheeks and in her hair, splinters in her flesh, and bruises on her knees.
She hammered and hammered and sawed and built but she still had nowhere to sleep. "It will get done" and the bravest, the bravest of her body, finally spoke and her bones said, "Oh love, this will not do."
The autopsy of Amanda Grey
Bones
She lived in a home she built from the sky down and,
Her body wondered out loud, "plug me in please," and she shushed it. SHHH. Body.
We are not made of things that can be recharged, and other things were meant to light up with electricity, but you and I, we run out when we do.
And she would nail down boards of her house, chimney and rooftop, and it would be difficult some days, building her house this way. Her knees would get scuffed up.
"Some things take sacrifice," she said to her knees. Matter-of-factly. And she painted the roof. She hammered and splinters stuck in her skin, but, she knew that the house would keep her safe. Someday.
And her lungs quivered, and knew they could not speak to this woman, paint on her cheeks and in her hair, splinters in her flesh, and bruises on her knees.
She hammered and hammered and sawed and built but she still had nowhere to sleep. "It will get done" and the bravest, the bravest of her body, finally spoke and her bones said, "Oh love, this will not do."
Bones
She lived in a home she built from the sky down and,
Her body wondered out loud, "plug me in please," and she shushed it. SHHH. Body.
We are not made of things that can be recharged, and other things were meant to light up with electricity, but you and I, we run out when we do.
And she would nail down boards of her house, chimney and rooftop, and it would be difficult some days, building her house this way. Her knees would get scuffed up.
"Some things take sacrifice," she said to her knees. Matter-of-factly. And she painted the roof. She hammered and splinters stuck in her skin, but, she knew that the house would keep her safe. Someday.
And her lungs quivered, and knew they could not speak to this woman, paint on her cheeks and in her hair, splinters in her flesh, and bruises on her knees.
She hammered and hammered and sawed and built but she still had nowhere to sleep. "It will get done" and the bravest, the bravest of her body, finally spoke and her bones said, "Oh love, this will not do."
The autopsy of Amanda Grey
Brain
There is a secret way her brain worked, and you
All wondered why she walked around with her huge yellow headphones on, every day.
We both know, that sometimes the brain misfires and there is a mystical creature in the street,
Scales? Wings?
And she would look past you at the things music created not just in her mind, but on the road. She would flinch as the cars passed, because she developed a fondness of sorts for the way her mind perceived music, and
The things her mind made.
She could some days scoop it up in her pocket, or swallow it whole, or paint a thing that maybe others could see,
Maybe not.
Brain
There is a secret way her brain worked, and you
All wondered why she walked around with her huge yellow headphones on, every day.
We both know, that sometimes the brain misfires and there is a mystical creature in the street,
Scales? Wings?
And she would look past you at the things music created not just in her mind, but on the road. She would flinch as the cars passed, because she developed a fondness of sorts for the way her mind perceived music, and
The things her mind made.
She could some days scoop it up in her pocket, or swallow it whole, or paint a thing that maybe others could see,
Maybe not.
The autopsy Amanda Grey--
Intestines
She was shit. Maybe that isn't a beautiful thing to say. But she would sit reading articles warning against sociopaths and how,
All they did was leave a path of destruction, and
Like a psycho she thought, well hey at least it's a path, it could have been all brush and bramble,
And maybe at least now you know what direction to avoid.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
Are you the host or graft?
There is a storm, the sky is green the sky doesn't,
Want you to put up your umbrella.
Some days you walk with me and some days
You trip on invisible cracks in the sidewalk.
Your chalk art is growing into a canyon,
What parts of your body want to revolt?
Maybe lately it is better to be just a little bit wary of
Whether your body is telling the truth.
Friday, August 05, 2016
I need water and light the way you need magic. The love affair I have with the sea.
there is the moon (I told you it was beautiful)
there is the reflection of it in the street,
there is the rain on your face, and once again I recognize that
I lived, and some days I am proud of that accomplishment.
I need magic, too.
I am impressed by the shoe choices spanning the crowd.
I reign in my mind, focus on counting them, the colors, the formats of footwear, the stones inlaid in them.
I can feel myself watching the patterns, the one-two step to her one-two-three,
The skipping, bouncing, shrinking of all these people. Her face pops into your mind, with her small child. No shoes, but a hell of a lot more intention.
I want to take mine (shoes, not people. distinction.) and hurl them into the water, watch them float a little before sinking, look across at the stranger in the red hat and grin because then at least they will know that I know I'm a little mad.
I don't. I'm mildly disappointed in myself that I don't. It is not a thing people do.
What I do, is remember the feeling. The leaving, the running, the descent into anonymity.
The first breath in a place you don't speak a language, the strangeness of your body not belonging with the other bodies, the possibility and uncertainty and newness of that. The thickness in your lungs.
I've made promises. Sometimes, I revel in what it may mean to just wear a raincoat when it is raining. To stop feeling every sensation as a reminder that the beauty is pervasive, and it is not yours to have but to borrow, and there is work to be done.
there is the moon (I told you it was beautiful)
there is the reflection of it in the street,
there is the rain on your face, and once again I recognize that
I lived, and some days I am proud of that accomplishment.
I need magic, too.
I am impressed by the shoe choices spanning the crowd.
I reign in my mind, focus on counting them, the colors, the formats of footwear, the stones inlaid in them.
I can feel myself watching the patterns, the one-two step to her one-two-three,
The skipping, bouncing, shrinking of all these people. Her face pops into your mind, with her small child. No shoes, but a hell of a lot more intention.
I want to take mine (shoes, not people. distinction.) and hurl them into the water, watch them float a little before sinking, look across at the stranger in the red hat and grin because then at least they will know that I know I'm a little mad.
I don't. I'm mildly disappointed in myself that I don't. It is not a thing people do.
What I do, is remember the feeling. The leaving, the running, the descent into anonymity.
The first breath in a place you don't speak a language, the strangeness of your body not belonging with the other bodies, the possibility and uncertainty and newness of that. The thickness in your lungs.
I've made promises. Sometimes, I revel in what it may mean to just wear a raincoat when it is raining. To stop feeling every sensation as a reminder that the beauty is pervasive, and it is not yours to have but to borrow, and there is work to be done.
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